


Aberration

by skydork (klismaphilia)



Series: Unsanctimonious; Victorian AU [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Doctor/Patient, Fetishized Illness, Hysteria, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kylux Hard Kinks, M/M, Male Hysteria, Medical Kink, Mental Breakdown, Past Child Abuse, Prostate Massage, Prostate Stimulation, Self-Denial, Serivce Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 01:26:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8601775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klismaphilia/pseuds/skydork
Summary: "I will show you how to rid yourself of this melancholy; I know how these abnormal feelings can tear one apart. You must relieve yourself of immorality.”Fill for Kylux Hard Kinks prompt:  Victorian AU with medical kink, inspired by those physicians who offered clitoral massage as a cure for 'hysteria'. Lord Huxley is afflicted with melancholy after the failure of his Star-Killer experiment. The mysterious Doctor Ren provides a treatment programme based on fingertip stimulation of the prostate gland.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted this prompt filled too bad, so I just decided to fucking do it myself. xD  
>  ~~Also, sorry for some of the history tidbits... my inner nerd got carried away.~~

**Aberration  
...**

 

The room was entirely too dark for the light of day, his body aching something miserable without a definitive cause. His vision danced, seeming to spin in circles, a myriad of colors flashing through his mind’s eye as Hux woke; red, of course, being the first. It ran beneath his feet and slid between the lines in the stone of the ground, dissipating into the Earth like some ghastly shadow of guilt.

 

And certainly, he deserved it. Lord Armitage Cadolyn Huxley of the Royal Logistics Corps, who had been awarded a ranking to match his standing in society at the proposal of his tactical experiment, Star-Killer. Star-Killer, which had been classified as a weapon on a grander scale than the British Army had seen in decades, even millennia, the weapon that had been made to end all concepts of war in Europe once and for all-- as if the French Revolution had not been enough, singularly, the pressure of the Habsburg collapse had singlehandedly brought to ruin much of the continent; and it was an atrocity, bizarre, certainly, with the rise of Imperialism. 

 

But perhaps Imperialism had not been enough, when it came to barbarians; of course, Hux had considered himself to be civilized, as all Anglo-Saxon peoples naturally were; though it had taken time, he had easily dug his way out of obscurity in Northern Ireland, passed himself off as a citizen of the Empire instead. There was a reason the sun never set on the British Empire, after all, and Hux had deigned to make that saying come to fruition.

 

Until he’d found himself half-collapsed with fever, slumped over his ten-year plans in a heap atop his own desk. It was decidedly unlike him, Hux had surmised, to faint. Fainting was a prospect attributed only to women, to sickened children and men who were inches from death. And he, of course, was perhaps inches from death--  _ him,  _ whose livelihood had been dedicated in service,  _ only in service to his Queen.  _ And his father, who had held him on a pedestal, and the beatings and floggings had been good for something, if they had righted his  _ ignorance. _

 

Armitage was a bastard, and Brendol had made it well-known; but then, they’d woven tales, before. Not only he, who was so gifted with logic and cunning that he’d worn down many greater than him, but Queen Mary as well, of course. Mary Tudor, the  _ bloody woman,  _ who had been born out of wedlock just as he; she had put many to death, and if she weren’t mad, the notion would have been  _ admirable. _

 

But then, somehow, it was. It was, because Hux had wished many put to death as well, the stains on his reputation, those  _ creatures _ who continued to befoul his head with their jeers and taunts and degradation. Furtive, and even futile, if one would only examine the bigger picture; as he had already killed, would kill, would  _ fix  _ all the wrongs that had been laid upon him.

 

And the people murmured,  _ That Lord Armitage, he has the gall to think himself a martyr,  _ but it wasn’t true in the slightest. No, he only had subtle fantasies, if one could even call them that. They were so often shrouded in flashbacks, memories of war and bloodshed, horror, the gore of bodies strewn across a city in wake of tragedy. 

 

It left him  _ fatigued.  _ Even if Hux had once held delusions of grandeur, now he found no comfort in his own person; now, he fell slowly into oblivion with each passing moment he sat in his chambers. His hair had grown, his beard more scraggly than it should have ever been; Brendol advocated for cleanliness, and he had drilled it into Hux so well. Yet the shaking of his fingers, those elegant, pale digits, betrayed the misplaced hope of his father. Brendol had been right to degrade him, and to whip him raw, for his failure was insurmountable and unforgivable.

 

He would not take any pleasure in his own nerves, jolted and pulsing inside his flesh, like a parasite gorging upon his organs. The rot that seeped from them often felt so great… oh, he had wished it was  _ his _ blood, instead of his father, or that soldier with the boyish face and long, dark hair like a weight on his shoulders. But nothing could be changed now, could it? Nothing was ever righted, when the tribulation of man came through aggression and judgment. Divine, of course, as if there was any other.

 

Still, when Hux had dropped over his desk one day, the last he’d expected was to be brought into a small, dingy room. It reeked of death, a putrid odor that seemed to mix with the acidic scent of his own flesh, the bile that had crept through his throat before he was able to push it aside, swiftly. His body was nearly worthless, having been reduced to mere shudders, quivering from the cold around him; it did feel so dismal. 

 

He scarcely held the life in him to open his eyes, when he expected nothing before him but rot; yet he did, finally, and the gasp that left his throat seemed to drop into a shaking sob.

 

_ How pathetic, _ a voice seemed to tell him, and then it faded into absence as a real voice took bearing.

 

“You have fallen ill.” It is a man; that is for sure, though the statement is so matter of fact that Hux hardly has the head to respond.

 

“I… suppose I have,” he recalls, uncertainly.

 

“What is your condition, Lord Huxley?”

 

“I am…” Hux’s words seem faintly slurred, from a state outside of his own; it brings back a memory, of another time, in another place. So many times, watching his body… so long spent outside of it, he should have been dismissed as a phantom. “I am… not myself, Doctor,” Hux finally complies, the words like lead on his tongue.

 

“And what do you mean by that?”

 

“As I said. I am… not myself. My body seems to disappear, or my mind is somewhere else; I often feel… confused. Drowsy, Doctor, and fatigued. As though my body is not mine. As if I am something… not myself.”

 

_ Uncivilized swine,  _ Hux scolds himself, in Brendol’s voice.  _ Incapable of forming a few mere sentences. How loathsome you are, how wretched, incompetent bastard. _ __  
__  
“You need someone to relieve you of your sickness,” the voice echoes, carrying like a melody through the breeze of an open window. “You need a treatment, to cure you from your temporary insanity, Lord Huxley.”

 

“Hux,” Hux answers, somewhere beyond his being. His focus centers on a man; tall, with an elaborately done coat wrapped over his frame,strange attire for a working man as himself. His hair is dark, black, pulled back at the nape of his neck, pallor surreal in the unorthodox light. 

 

“Hux, as you will,” the Doctor responds. “I am Kylo Ren.”

 

“What an odd name.” Hux remarks, though he is uncertain why; he’s been taught to mind his manners, hold his tongue, so as not to make scathing comments. Yet for now, he’s unable to care… he hardly feels a thing.

 

“Your servants were alarmed at the recent developments with your service to the Imperial Army,” Ren continues. “They have rumored that, perhaps, the Devil has been at work inside of you. Your impotence, in exploitation and cynicism, prove a problem quite sinister.” The man smiles, knowingly, though he does not elaborate on the accusations.

 

“Tell me who it was, and I will see them dead…” Hux murmurs. “Tell me, so I can repay them… for taking with them my father, my mother and my feelings. My men… my  _ Star-Killer. _ It was to be legendary, Doctor… I knew it was…”

 

“A legend of immorality, perhaps,” Ren continues. “Of greed. Your depersonalization persists, Hux. As does your dissociation from our frame of reality. It would not be so outlandish to think you possessed. Your red hair is a gift from the unholy creature himself.” As if making a point, Ren tangles his fingers into the soft locks, carding through them as if in thought.

 

“How am I to be cured, Doctor?”

 

“I must confess, I have never seen a condition of this sort in a man like yourself,” Ren alludes, disparaging. “You are of Anglo origin, and of noble heritage to an extent, and more pressingly, a male. Such symptoms are nearly unheard of within this country, though I suppose there are always exceptions to the commonplace.” The hand has settled over his cheek now; Hux can feel a prickling beneath his skin, and he longs to move himself away. Perhaps he would, if he did not need the help.

 

“Doctor, does my condition have a name?”

 

“Many have called it hysteria, but you do not have a womb, Armitage. Instead, I believe the term we are looking for must be more appropriate; is ‘melancholy’ suiting to your tastes? You seem in need of help, Hux. Gravely injured, deeper than your flesh; the disease is in your mind, but do not concur to your anxieties. There is a cure, I believe, if not as well known.”

 

“Then get on with it, will you not? If I can be cured, do it! You are a man of medicine, a doctor. I am enraptured by this pretense of a false reality, Doctor. How am I to know that my body is my own?” Hux turns his neck, eyes slowly slipping closed once more, his posture crushed under the weight of the burden laid on his chest. He could not have  _ hysteria-- _ could not have  _ melancholy.  _ To think as much would be admitting a great flaw, a criminal offense; that he could be a homosexual. 

 

It was already speculated, and Hux was not a woman; he was not a being of  _ lust,  _ he had not yet absconded with any such desire. Yet to have such a possibility laid out before him-- did this mean that he was, in some manner, correct? Outside of himself… as if he were, in fact, not a man, not a nobleman…

 

“Do not spend too much time fretting, Armitage. You will be seen no differently on the outside.” But like a curse, the voice plays in his ears, trapped like a demented spirit with no other realm to inhabit. Hux finds his trousers being slid away from his legs, his thighs parted with no resistance even as the chill of the air hangs heavy against the underside of his cock, his exposed perineum.

 

“Have you been taught in anatomy, Hux?” Ren considers, and Hux appears to nod, though the motion does not come naturally. Those hands are firm, steady on his thighs, creeping along the inside of his leg and underneath the lithe muscle, propping him forward. The Doctor pulls away, as if reaching for something beyond Hux’s sight, and there is the sound of a vial being uncapped, a hum of consideration. “This will require further affirmation. I will show you how to rid yourself of this melancholy; I know how these abnormal feelings can tear one apart. You must relieve yourself of immorality.”

 

A single, slick digit breaches the cleft of Hux’s buttocks, sliding along that exposed rim, the disobedient muscle twitching as a sort of unsaid invitation. He can feel it before he realizes the intention, and too soon, Hux’s cheeks are parting with a determined resistance, his own mouth sliding open, jaw loose in realization. 

 

“Ah, Ren… is this not inappropriate?”

 

“In your case, it is necessary,” the brooding tone provides as way of explanation, before another finger is settling beside the first, quirking in a definitive direction and probing. Hux’s body tightens, as if wanting; a pulse of blood rushes to the head of his cock, and his length seems to stiffen at the motion, even with the disgusting nature of its origination.  _ This is taboo,  _ Hux thinks, with futility.  _ This is execrable.  _

 

But,  _ oh!  _ Those fingers are drilling into him, and in a moment of blind adulation, Hux  _ moans.  _ It seems an unfortunate noise, but the feeling is too delightful; his nerve endings spark with white flame from the inside out, eyes tipping back in his head as the sensitive point of interest is nudged.

 

“This is your prostate, Armitage,” Ren informs him. “Your sexual deviance has made you sensitive, and dissociative. I’m afraid the only cure you may find is fingertip stimulation of this gland.” As if reaffirming the comment, Ren’s fingers work over that bundle once more, the nub within his body radiating waves of heat and pleasure that spread through Hux’s limbs until he tingles. His toes curl, pleasure descending through him, and it is unlike anything he ever felt. No, he needs-- he is-- this  _ pressure,  _ yes, it is a relief. In what manner, Hux cannot be certain, but,  _ please,  _ he thinks as he convulses.  _ Please, ease my suffering. _

 

His thighs hook around Ren’s arm as some feeble desire for anchorage; those fingers continue to work that spot within so meticulously and wonderously that his hips have nearly begun bucking in tandem, pleased by the undoing of his head. He needs more of a stretch, inside that hole, against that precious place he had never known existed before now. And,  _ by God, I could never, I would never,  _ he is rutting against those fingers, whimpering as if he were a virgin girl on the night of her marriage, desperate to please and be pleased in turn.

 

“Doctor--”

 

“Kylo,” Ren corrects him.

 

“Kylo,  _ please.” _

 

A hand barely brushes along the base of his cock before he is coming, his body trembling and breaking into a million pieces at once, thoughts fragmented and unnatural to his consciousness. He releases with a shout, spurts trails of white liquid along the Doctor’s practiced hand, the uncontrollable bliss in his mind evening out to a number of sobs, light and hardly made to echo the space between their bodies.

 

“Am I cured, Ren?”

  
“Not yet.” The room spins when Hux attempts to edge himself to a sitting position, flinching at the unnatural jolt through his ass when he moves. Kylo’s smirk is highlighted under the static of his vision, the grey that surrounds everything Hux lays eyes upon. “ _ But you will be.” _

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Concupiscent](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8612482) by [skydork (klismaphilia)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/klismaphilia/pseuds/skydork)




End file.
